Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.05.2004, Side 29

29the reykjavík grapevine
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We were here first
by Kría
Sheep sets record
A sheep in Mývatnssveit has recently carried 4
lambs. This would not be breaking news but for
the fact that the sheep, which carries the serial number
603, has now carried a grand total of 27 lambs in its
lifetime, which is a first. The sheep carried five lambs
last year, and so seems to be taking is a bit easier this
time around.
Wrestling comes to Ólafsvík
A gang of youths were spotted one peaceful evening in
Ólafsvík in Western Iceland fighting wearing face masks
and other outfits. The boys claimed to have seen the World
Wrestling Federation on cable TV, liked what they saw and
decided to imitate it.
Guitarist from Mývatn joins Faroese rockband
Unknown guitarist Ottó Arnarsson from Mývatn has joined Faroese rockband Týr, best known
for their hit song Ormurinn langi (the Long Serpent), a reworking of an old ring dance song.
The guitarist, who had never met the band, sent them an email in December 2003 asking them if they needed a
guitarist. The band replied, saying they did and accepted him.
Statue of Thor unveiled
In honour of the 20th anniversary of the Comprehensive College in Akureyri, a statue of Thor has been unveiled
outside the school. The statue is a replica of a pendant found there in Akureyri in the mid 19th Century, and is
presumed to date from Viking times. The replica, however, is 1,6 metres tall.
Island life
It’s about this time of year that we
start to poll up in this little island
that you like to call home, and
over the last few decades our visits
up here have not always gone as
planned - things have been getting
out of order.
Listen hard now - we were here first.
We’d been hanging out here for
centuries before your raggedy-arsed
little ship trundled over the horizon
and a few sorry Vikings stumbled
ashore. They were lost, by the way,
and hopeless at fire-lighting, but
that’s a different matter. Now where
was I?
Oh yes, So here we were at the
end of our usual trip from down
south, chilling out with the relatives,
getting a bit of pre-coital preening
going, and this wooden thing with
a woolen sail and a few bewildered
sailors spluttering some unintel-
ligible language, land right in the
middle of our nesting ground.
What you got to understand is that
these Vikings discovered nothing.
They spent most of their time lost,
wandering around the globe bump-
ing into places. Speaking as a bird,
I feel qualified to tell you that we
don´t have a high regard for folks
who rely on ravens for navigation. If
it’s direction you´ve a mind for, then
mark my words: A dove´s the only
option. Think about it. Noah used a
dove - he got the promised land. Use
a raven, you get Iceland.
So, anyway, that’s how it all started.
At first it really wasn’t a problem.
There were millions of us all over
the place and a few hundred or so of
you. You weren’t going to make any
difference. Besides, we don’t actually
like it that much here. You see, we
like the sun and when I say like, I
really mean LIKE. Put it another
way. We don’t do dark. Dark is bad.
Dark sucks.
No, we are the ultimate sun hounds.
We follow it when it comes up here
in May or June and then leave as the
night starts again in August. We
head off down to the equator, hang
out in the Sahara for a week or so
while we rest up, and then we flit on
down to Antarctica, where we can
check in for months of non-stop Big
Orange - Old Helios himself - for
the winter.
We feed up and wait until we feel
encouraging squirmings in the
regeneration department, in no time
at all the primeval urge kicks in and,
once again, we pack up and head
north.
So what’s my gripe? Well, is it too
much to ask to be left alone when we
get here? Look, the sun aside, we’re
up here to get intimate, to shake tail
feathers and generally strut our stuff.
And the place we´ve been coming all
these years to do it is out there, on
the point at Seltjarnanes. You put a
light house out there, we could cope
with that, but whose idea was it to
add bunkers and a club house?
Put it another way. How would you
feel if you’d travelled 6,000 miles
from the other end of the earth,
risking wing and limb over land and
sea, hell-bent on procreation, only
to find that some idiot’s built a golf
course in your boudoir? Think of
it, a putting green on your pleasure
table, a ‘nineteenth hole’ in the kid’s
nursery - NO WAY man!
What we need is a little respect
around here. I mean, who else travels
this far to come here, geese? Nope.
Ducks? - Are you kidding me?
Skuas? They don’t even make it half
way.
When it comes to migration we are
IT, man. We were the ones who put
tourism on the map. Not some short
hop to the Canary Islands that you
guys seem so obsessed with. What is
it about that place anyway? What´s
wrong with your own volcanic rock-
heap; haven’t you had enough of
black beaches and moss to last you a
life time?
And what´s the problem you guys
have got with names? We´re called
Sterna Paradisea. Not Tern. not Kria,
not Arctic Tern. Sterna Paradisea.
And what´s our idea of paradise? A
place with no golfers. There are no
golfers in the Antarctic, no golfers in
the Sahara. And the Vikings didn´t
golf. What have you people come to?
You see what we want is…
R.E.S.P.E.C.T. - you know the song.
The Vikings we could handle, your
ancestors we could cope with, those
guys with the guns around the time
you got Independence we could
tolerate - we thought they were only
temporary anyway. But golfers? Now
you’ve crossed the line…we won’t
put up with it. It’s war.
So if you want some fun, finish
your coffee, and amble down to the
point at Seltjarnanes. There’s one of
them golf courses there. Sure nuff,
they’ll be there waving their sticks,
wriggling their fat arses and chasing
that white ball around the place.
(Now what’s all that about? They got
nothing better to do? “A good walk
spoiled” just about sums it up. That
Kipling, he knew what golfing was
about. ) But don’t get me started on
that one.
We’ll be there and so will the golfers.
Beak to butt. No contest!